


Loyal Mutt

by Clenhian



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1880's, Death, Gothic, the dog doesn't get a name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9262562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clenhian/pseuds/Clenhian
Summary: When the lord of his home's chambermaid goes missing, who helps to find out what happened but his loyal mutt?





	

The night of a great disturbance, such that the moon was hailed by the shaggy mongrel to look upon a gruesome deed borne of ill will and spoiled wishes. The lord of the manor, Lord Robert, awoke with a sharp breath, watching as the moon hung low like a watchman in his tower. Standing from his stately bed, he let out the wailing beast, smooth eyes watching it dash along the hall and down the carpeted stairs. 

Out the stairwell deserted the creature, running along yet another hall bordered and littered with rooms not as grand as the master’s, yet not as abundant as the servant quarters. Each room had a unique painting, commissioned by the lord of this manor for his self to view. Rarely entertaining guests, the rooms stand as vacant reminders to the hubris of his father, Lord Tiberius, who nearly drove his house to ruin in an expression of grandeur. The only remnant of the man being a simple stone grave. Without name. Without much meaning at all.

On the dog sprinted, reaching the steps outside, jumping, bounding, leaping out the open window, past the shacks which held the workers and cooks and gardeners and maids. Only one had a candle at this hour, that of the groundskeeper, Eugene Anker, known for keeping late hours. The wax of the candle was nearly gone, and that who lit it is not where the light would suggest. 

Through thickets and brambles, bushes and trees ran the creature, leaping, jumping, sprawling over the land as though chased by the devil itself. The trees parted way, the river of the north burbles and gurgles, until a shriek is heard, spurring the beast on. The shade of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths with an element of darkness.

Morning brings back the matted mongrel, mangled and messy trappings betwixt its maw. Lord Robert calls to his pup, dislodging the material, only to find a small white stick covered in red and a spittled piece of shirt. 

"From where has this thing been found?" Lord Robert pondered, moving about his quarters in preparation for the day. Yet when he called to his chambermaid, she was nowhere to be found. 

Hastily Lord Robert sped down the steps, remnants of deeds ill begotten in hand. Calling out to his cooks, they hasten to know from whence the bone came, shocked to find that it is quite human in nature. The maids clean the scrap of cloth, showing a simple cotton shirt, much like that of those who work outside. All they who deal with the grounds are called, the gardener claiming they were asleep, the coachman claiming sleep among the horses, the stable boys claim they were at home, asleep with their dears, while Eugene claims to have been awake, repairing a broom until late in the night. 

"Wherever has gone my chambermaid, Eugene? You claim you were awake, so must have seen her leave!" 

"The lass told me she received a message, of an ailin' mother who wished to speak with her child one last time, m'lord. She's gone into the city, though she said not where. Perhaps my daughter can be of sufficient service while Miss Martha is away, yes? I took the liberty of having her here." 

"Perhaps," pondered Lord Robert, looking about the room at anxious countenances. In front of him was a beautiful young woman, not more than two dozen summers old.

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, Lord Robert goes about his day, meeting with various farmhands to prepare the fields for winter, and with a tailor to have made a new pant. About midday, the dog scratches at the main hall's door, an eerie, pitiful sound, as branches at a window, echoing about in a distrustful manner.

Lord Robert stared about him, in the grand hall of his estate, peering at the windows. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor upon which many feet had danced as to be altogether inaccessible from within, casting ghostly shadows with the bars held across them. His trusted hound bounded in, mud clinging to its mouth, trotting to its master, then spitting out a small strand. Lord Robert sighed, picking up the morsel of mire, cleaning twigs and leaves, then, to his dismay, discovered it to be a strand of ribbon, not unlike that worn by his chambermaid.

Swiftly, Lord Robert calls in the maids and Eugene, noticing with keen eyes how the groundskeeper kept his arm close to his body. Showing the ribbon to them, he asked for an explanation. 

"Twas not I, my lord," called the first maid

"Nor was I, Lord," replied the second

"Not I at all, my lord," ventured the third, clean red hair twisted in a bun.

"I was mending m' shirts last night, m'lord," Eugene spoke, cradling his left arm once more.

"Let me see your arm, Eugene." Lord Robert demanded, menacing the old man.

"Yes, milord," He answered, hobbling over, left arm outstretched as he pulled up his sleeve. Gauze wound around the arm, plaster overlapping the ends, red spots appearing in a crescent as blood stained through.

"How did this happen?" Lord Robert interrogated, harshly snatching his arm, eliciting a pained cry from the man.

"Was b-bit by a raccoon, m'lord," Eugene stuttered out, neck craning away in pain.

"This is too large for a 'coon, Eugene, now tell me what happened!" Lord Robert spat, releasing the arm. The windows stood as though a jury, accusing him of what Lord Robert feared. The light cast was warped and twisted, low, gloomy clouds darkening the sky, a foul grin stretching on Eugene's visage.

"Very well then, m'lord," He sneered, a depraved look in his eyes.

"I killed your chambermaid, so's my daughter here could replace her. I took 'er out to the forest west, smacked her wid my shovel, and she fell with a good bit of a smack I'll reckon. Then's your hound must've 'eard what was going on, so 'e came and bit me in the bloody arm, tearing my shirt an' snatching 'er ribbon. Of course, I didn't just leave 'er body in those dim trees, so I drug her back to my hovel of a home, cuttin' 'er up and stewing her, hoping your stupid dog would eat it, but all 'e did was snatch a finger bone I must've missed, there's so bloody many of them. Of course, the stew is still there, m'lord, if you'd care to try some?" Eugene finished. His voice had dropped low, an awfully mild look on his mug for all that he spoke of murder.

"Seize him," Lord Robert ordered, the dutiful maids closing around him, while his daughter was silently weeping, ashamed of her sire and how she came to be by her uniform.

"I did try the stew, m'lord, it was savory," Eugene remarked, after having been tied by the maids to a chair. Lord Robert turned on his heel, seeing his blood litter the ground as little fat red pebbles. A horrible image had formed in his mind, so much clarity along with it that he could not help but see the putrid smoke rising like a serpent above a pot, in one corner of the closet Eugene possessed, a very small furnace sat nestled, with a glowing fire in it, and on the fire a kind of duplicate crucible- two crucibles connected by a tube. He could hear the shovel clattering on rocks like a dropped spoon on a floor. 

His body moved on its own, taking steep steps down to sharp rocks outlining the garden his chambermaid had so laboriously worked upon. He twisted to see the grounds, where on all sides- save to the west, where the sun was about sinking - arose the verdant walls of the forest. Striding towards his huge home, he came across the torrid heat of a burning fire, which had broken out amongst the dry brush, dead of a long, cold autumn that had begun after deep summer. He hastened inside, warning those of the fire, only to see Eugene himself burning, crying out in awful agony. Lord Robert could only watch, transfixed to see a murderer being burned alive. 

All that was left of Eugene Anker was a pile of ashes, and a small iron ring. The chambermaid's funeral was held on a gray day. The day itself broke with a rush of showers and ominous feelings, as though something out of nightmares was pulling the strings of this ill-fated place. Perhaps it was the way the dog's eyes gleamed in watching the ashes of the old groundskeeper swept and disposed of in the furnace, or perhaps it was that the pot of human stew was never taken off the little alcove stove, until the new chambermaid decided to destroy the pot containing it, burning the ground with brown and gray murk, mixing with the earth until all that was left was rich dirt, growing lilies that won the fair the next year.


End file.
